For We Know No Fear
by What Shouldn't Work
Summary: Blood Ravens Tarkus and Cyrus are the soul survivors of a Strike Cruiser's demise, and land upon a world just shy of the Imperium's border. They are surrounded by Titans, and off-set by humanity without the Emperor's light. In the Forty-First Millennia, there is only war, and humanity's survival sometimes needs something completely devoid of subtlety. Reviews HIGHLY enjoyed.


**"I've decided I don't want to go as a ghost...**

 **...I want to dress as Tactical Sergeant Tarkus from the Blood Ravens 4th Company in Warhammer 40,000."**

 **\- Billy, The Family Circus**

]I[

A second sun lit up that day. A twisting streak that flared in multiple paths, but to those below it appeared like the natural sun will when glancing up at it, that shimmering orb twisting into rays and shimmering heat. Even the monstrous entities wandering the woods peered up at the unnatural force above, expecting more sunlight to invigorate their hellish bodies through the thick foliage, and blinking lazily when that power never came. Everyone stopped their daily routines,letting barrels rock back onto carts instead of hauling them aside, standing still with dirt crumbling off rusted shovels, as more and more pointed out this strange phenomenon. So far below, they did not recognize the strike cruiser that could end their reality to a single Nova Cannon shot, nor the diseased barge it plowed into that had desired to cast another world in a sickly green ichor.

They say ignorance is bliss. To those still alive on the cruiser, bliss is a fantasy ill-afforded. Ignorance to the infested barge allowed it to sneak up on them. Ignorance allowed it to unleash a melta-tipped warhead into their side. Ignorance left ten of the twelve most important occupants little more than bone and greasy puddles in their armor, or bloated and melted into pulpy sacks and rusted ceramite. In the year leading up to a Primarch's return, ignorance and hope blinds one to inevitable disappointment, where faith will shield one from soulless torment. Blessed were the Bolters that tore down the ranks of former crew. Pure were the flamers that gave salvation to nauseating puddles and bulbous meat. Strong was their faith that the Emperor would see them defiant. Faithful, defiant servants to the carion-lord that is the immortal Emperor refused even a single plagued drop to make planet-fall, and earned their bliss the true way of mankind, by knowing they died with their duty complete, save for two of the twelve. Where even a fresh Battle-Brother would chatesize a Chapter-Serf acting as captain to their ship forgiving any command to them, the two warrior-monks instead replied in prayer and thanks and scrambled onto a deployment craft that only they could survive.

At high-noon for the sprawling city below, built upon a world classified as 'Feudal', not a soul noticed the drop-pod thundering in the distance, save the wandering Titan that barely had time to look up before folding into itself from the impact of several hundred angry tons. Embedding sideways into the ground, three doors failed to open, the fourth launching skyward to explosive charges. Through the dust and ashes, a single Scout Marine pulled himself upright and swept the area with his Bolter. Entrusting nothing surrounded them, he reached in to fetch and sling his sniper rifle, before hopping effortlessly outside. A heavy, nigh-inhuman grunt comes from inside the drop-pod, and two massive gauntlets pull the Astartes Sergeant halfway outside. He ignores the perked eyebrow from Cyrus, occupying himself with a palm under his chin to pop his loosely hanging jaw back into place. Tarkus, survivor of Kronus, unsettles the leaves of smaller trees when his armored boots drop onto the ground.

"No one else survived," the Scout-Sergeant speaks openly, half-focused on Tarkus' approach while tapping his ear-piece. "I hear only ghosts on the line."

Tarkus rolls a pauldron, ensuring the servos and synthetic ligaments held together. He mutters thanks to his armor's machine spirit, and again to the pod that delivered them safely, for an Astarte's standards at least. Doubly so for the Bolters and Chainsword still with him, to properly challenge any hostile on this world not yet under the Imperium's sway. As Cyrus steps about, sizing up a good swath of trees to declare their perimeter, Tarkus takes the afforded moment to frown up at the sky. The second sun over this world has dwindled. There will be little to bury from their Cruiser's warp-drive collapsing and pulling the Traitor's ship into the hellscape. Any debris will dig its own grave when orbit fails, along with any unfortunate soul on the planet's surface.

"A dishonorbale death to the plagued traitors." Cyrus ignores Tarkus' narrowing eyes.

"They were good men." Cyrus is too far out to hear Tarkus' murmurs. He kneels, bringing the chainsword from the magnetic clasp to press into the earth. Undoubtedly Cyrus notices this movement, he need not look up to know that. Closed eyes guarantee he will not glance sidelong to Cyrus' disapproving frown, and to properly take the form of one giving prayers and thanks to the fallen, and doubly so to the Emperor for giving them this chance. Tarkus pays the sensation of being watched no mind.

"Brother, now it not..."

Tar A sidelong glance meets the Scout's expecting gaze. "We will take time to give our prayers to the fallen," Tarkus speaks at the same time.

A moment passes before Cyrus tries again. "Now is not the time to grieve."

"Sergeant-"

A hand quickly rises to placate the Veteran Marine. "I agree we must give our blessings," he quickly speaks over Tarkus' admonishment. "Now is not the time without knowing where we are. It is foolish to give our regards before we have our footing."

A Scout under his command would have given his apologies. A Battle-Brother would have bristled at the implication of being 'foolish'. Angelos would have silently regarded Cyrus until he apologized, and Diomedes... It is better left unsaid how the First Company Sergeant would react. Thankfully, it is Tarkus who stands alongside him, wise enough to know not everything said is meant to be an insult, and wiser still to know the brooding Scout never says anything without great feeling, regardless of a bitter outlook at times. "Give our thanks to their service, and the Emperor who receives their spirits with open arms. That can be done while we walk."

Cyrus acted to speak on this, and took a breath to better formulate a proper response. "Then we shall. But," as he nods towards the west, "I can see the chimney smoke of industry in the distance. This ignorant world insults our sacrifice."

Tarkus chooses not to indulge any of Cyrus' nihilism this day. He gives one more murmur, a promise to his brothers to always know no fear, before rising. "I agree we should head that way." It is usually never wise for Sergeants to command one another, so speaking as though both parties can agree on a task is a safer angle. "My Jump-Pack's embedded in the hold. I will need time to dig it out."

Cyrus nods, yet continues to address the matter at hand. "This world has been beyond the Emperor's light, however."

"Then it is best for us to be diplomatic." A few strides back return Tarkus to the pod, where he leaps up onto the edge. "I'm certain we do not need an Inquisitor's touch." He emphasizes the point by gripping a warped pipe around his Jump-Pack and wrenching the metal apart.

"That is to say they will react positively to us." Ten feet of blessed armor and tempered bodies is not always well received.

"Speaking from experience?" Tarkus calls from the pod, half grunting as his arms strain against a dislodged beam.

"Humans fear us for a reason."

"We -are- still Human, Cyrus. Gifted as we are. Is not the Emperor the 'father' of Humanity? We are his finest warriors, our enemies should fear us, not those we shephard."

"The reality is we are still much... more gifted than the common man. Although, I no longer think that our size will be too much of an issue now."

By the Scout's voice, Tarkus could tell his brother had been patrolling around and coming closer to the drop pod. Finally wrenching the Jump Pack free, he goes to step back outside to discern what Cyrus meant by that. The Scout-Sergeant stood behind the embedded pod, moving earth about with a foot. He kneels out of sight, digging the rest of the way with a gloved hand, and rises to present spliced remnants of an eyeball easily taking up the expanse of his palm. The unholy flesh sizzles, a heat not yet bothersome to Astarte skin, nor are both men disturbed by how it peels apart and steams away into nothingness.

Cyrus hums. "I thought it to be the heat from the pod. We hit something." Tarkus silently watches as Cyrus moves further along the rivet carved by the pod's landing. He crouches, digs again, and pulls forth half a tooth. He is not startled by Tarkus leaping from the pod and approaching, and readily hands the bone over to be inspected.

Tarkus finds his metal-clad fingers barely able to curl around the tooth's sides, and frowns when his titanic grip barely forms any cracks in it. "A warp-beast?"

"Whatever it is we hit?" Cyrus kneels again, pushing back more dirt to reveal rapidly dissolving skin. "The terror-sight in my optical finds no markings, blessed be the Emperor for that."

Tarkus pulls the helmet from his side and dons it. Green eye pieces flare to life, bringing the internal Auspex to bear on the suddenly disintegrating tooth. What few numbers flicker across his vision are aided by the machine-spirit whispering through his armor, through the black carapace that makes Astartes and his armor one complete warrior. It is more of an emotion than actual words, the spirit intrigued yet troubled by what it can and cannot sense. There is always a great chance of the Great Enemy's plots, masking their minions until the last possible moment, yet the auspex 'feels' it as being more... pure. Primal. Twisted, but not Warped. "A hostile force. We've no Librarian to aid us."

"And no Space Wolves to contemplate this as a world's spirit," Cyrus muses, while curling his fingers through super-heated dissolving flesh. "I give thanks this does not reek of Plaguerot. I give concern that we do not know what this monster is."

"Dead," answers Tarkus, tossing the tooth aside. "Now, come, it is wise to seek out civilization," as he looks back to his brother, "and honorable of us to give our thanks."

It is said one can never ambush a Space Marine, for they are indoctrinated to expect it at every turn. Counterpart to the Inquisitors that expect betrayal, regardless of how intentional, yet only the most brazen Inquisitor ever makes that comparison to an Astarte's face, especially since the Space Wolves stared down the 'I and Skull' and were not the ones to blink. Perhaps that is why the numerous large eyes peering around the trees did not step closer to the heavy thumps of boots and power armor moving close to a full gallop, instinctively recognizing that these two strangers, nearly as tall as the smaller Titans, expected to be swarmed at any moment... and how these warriors relished the thought.

A silent command from one blonde Titan helps to reinforce that instinct, her normally calm and mocking gaze offset by a light frown... that twists into a deviant, expecting smirk.


End file.
